


∅

by imiriad



Category: End Roll (Video Game)
Genre: Dissection, Gen, Guro
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-12
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-12-14 07:14:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11778093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imiriad/pseuds/imiriad
Summary: "Would you allow me to perform a minor experiment?" The doctor had asked him, opening the kitchen drawer. Now that he thinks of it, he had been smiling oddly. "There's something... I've been very interested in, you see..."Russell had accepted without hesitation, and nodded.





	∅

Snip.

The pair of shears used in the medicine shop are worn, ancient things. Aged but still cared for, polished after every use with a steady hand. Though Kantera keeps them next to his humble collection of knives in the kitchen, these shears only serve to cut through herb stems and dried leaves. Too flimsy to slice through meat, or even skin.

At least, they were.

But this is not the past, nor is it the present. It’s a dream. In it, Kantera’s shears are as sharp as a razor and more powerful than hedge-clippers when they dive into Russell’s chest.

Snip.

It… hurts.

Worse than the flames of vengeance flung by Cody and Dogma’s mother, worse than the backhanded slaps his father would give with all his drunken strength. Even so, there’s a numbness that comes with it. His eyes and throat refuse to burn. A quiet moan is the only sound Russell makes in suffering as his stomach splits open. 

Kantera looks… pleased. More so than Russell's ever seen, as he follows the bloody line with his scissors, stabbing deeper into Russell’s skin. The wide smile on his mouth curls higher at the ends, and he squeezes the handle. It catches against something—bone? Russell wonders briefly, before Kantera adds more pressure. A part of it gives, bringing a bright flash of pain with it. The blades open again, wider, finding purchase against the weakened fracture, and…

Snap.

The obstacle splits in two. The metal digs deeper to lengthen the gash. His heart thumps hard and fast in desperation, but Russell feels oddly calm. His breath staggers, killing whatever vocalization tries to escape with the next steady slice.

Darkness takes his vision and suddenly, what Russell sees isn’t Kantera’s crescent smile or the yellowed ceiling tiles of his shop. It’s the hazy memory of science textbook, turned to a page displaying the human body's anatomy. Ah, Russell realizes, looking at the picture. What he's cutting into isn’t bone, but cartilage. The ones holding his ribs to his sternum. The lowest one is the hardiest, so now that Kantera is past it, the rest come apart so much quicker.

Slice. Snap. Snip.

One after the other.

Russell visualizes it in his head, like he’s looking over Kantera’s shoulder as he operates. _Almost_ _finished_ _on the left side,_ Russell thinks, feeling the prick of the blades and seeing the glint of silver cradling a piece of cartilage. It's strange, that no matter how much blood spills, none of it seemed to stain the blade. “Are you going to do the other side, too?” he murmurs into Kantera’s ear, curious, but unwilling to disturb the strange quiet in the room.

Kantera doesn’t respond. Russell isn’t skilled enough to imagine what the answer is, so he does the only thing he can. He waits.

Snip.

With that, the connection is completely severed. The left side of chest sags, crimson streaming out of the wound to the tune of his beating heart. It should hurt—the pain is so recent that he can still feel its remnants in the tips of his fingers—but all that's there is warmth and wetness and a disorienting tingle working through him.

Kantera lays the scissors on the tile floor with a light clink. “Now," he finally speaks, "let’s take a gander, shall we, Russell?” His voice is at its usual, gentle and soothing. Even in these twisted circumstances, the sound brings Russell a small amount of comfort. Combined with the fuzziness around the edges of his vision, it’s nearly enough to lull him to sleep.

Kantera clutches Russell’s hip tightly, the one closest to the gash. When his opposite hand extends over Russell, the delicate and dexterous fingers twitch, stretching unnaturally into long, beastlike claws. It should be obvious what happens next, but it still manages to catch Russell off guard. In a blur, Kantera buries his hand into the open wound, digging deep.

A shrill cry surges from Russell’s throat. The earlier numbness explodes into sensation, fire and ice stabbing his chest at once. Kantera’s claws scrape against the inside of his rib cage, scrabbling for something there. They find it—a firm grip on his sternum—and _pull_.

Crack.

Russell's body spasms in shock and pain, his eyes flying wide. A wet cough bursts from his mouth, which triggers another round of convulsions. All of Russell's distress is ignored as Kantera stares down at his chest cavity. Russell can't imagine what he's hoping to see, not at first. Then, it comes to him. Dread pumps through his veins instead of blood and chills him to the core, more present and visceral than Kantera shredding his insides.

"S..." _Stop,_ he mouths, too weak to produce anything audible. Russell tries to reach out for Kantera, to push him away. The best he can manage with his leaden limbs is a brush against Kantera’s elbow. It's not enough to give Kantera pause, let alone deter him. He simply adjusts his grasp, using both hands to split Russell wide open.

Russell can't find the reassuring thud of his pulse in his neck or head. His body is incredibly still, unmoved by any intake of breath or exhale. The torturous dissection may have made him grimace and scream in pain, yet none of it brought a single tear to his eyes—until now. It's cold running down his cheeks. "Please," Russell wheezes. It should be impossible to speak when he isn't breathing, but this is a dream, his nightmare, exemplified by the red-hot glint of Kantera's eyes. "Doctor... don't... look..."

Either Kantera doesn't hear, or doesn't listen. His scouring gaze bores holes into Russell's chest, searing. "Hohh..." With that soft noise, the corner of Kantera's lip quirks. "'Tis just as I thought, Russell," he sighs, in the only tone had Russell never wanted to hear him use. Any trace of fondness in Kantera's face was gone, replaced with a detached, pedantic edition of sorrow.

"You are so very... empty."

It stings. The pity in those words burn Russell's ears so sharply that the rest of his pain feels smoldering in comparison. Russell turns his head to the side, blinking back those bitter tears. He knows that much better than anyone, doesn't he?

But... of all the people to see it for sure, Russell hadn't wanted it to be him.

The scissors on the floor are still shining brightly. The floor, too, is spotless, as are Kantera's hands and Russell's clothes. The mess of spilled blood is gone, erased from existence along with the traces of his bodily pain. Russell can't help wondering if everything else has disappeared, the way the warped hallucinations often do. Perhaps... he would find himself lying on the floor of Kantera's shop in one piece.

Russell drops his eyes to check, and he realizes his mistake one second too late. He still can't feel his heartbeat. There isn't any air in his lungs. No... It's more accurate to say that there isn't a heart to beat, or a pair of lungs to feel air inside. Russell's sick to his stomach as he peers down his chest. Bloodless, doll-like gore, and underneath... a black pit of _nothing._

"Poor thing," Kantera says, words drenched in fake sympathy. Just like the ladies who'd lived next door, staring at Russell's bruised face with regret and the distinct desire not to get involved. "You poor, poor thing."

_Shut up._

His chest is on fire now. Boiling. The bottomless darkness gains substance in the form of inky, black tar that oozes down his abdomen. Russell can move again, and he does. His fingers wrap firmly around the shears that were used against him. Kantera's curved mouth parts in preparation to speak again, but Russell has heard enough. More than enough. He lunges, thrusting the too-sharp scissors into Kantera's stomach.

Everything goes still.

Russell presses a hand to his torso. Apart from the remnants of black tar clinging to his vest, his body is as it was before, solid and safe. Kantera slumps forward, barely keeping himself upright with one arm. He raises his face, and gazes at Russell with dark gray eyes. His kimono is gray, too. The shelves and walls and every little trinket posed on them are all drained of color, painted with monochrome.

The expression that's on Kantera's face is completely different from before. The pitying stare, the mockery have disappeared and what remains is the gentleness that Russell had always sought from him. Kantera's voice comes low, as if confiding a secret to his sole comrade in the world, "You are the only one I can trust with this, Russell. After all..." At that time, the doctor had smiled wryly. "We are two of a kind, aren't we?"

Russell hadn't bought those words the first time, so what makes him believe them now? The drugs, the dream or his own useless guilt? Just like then, Russell aims true. He pulls the shears free and brings them down higher, stabbing Kantera square in the chest.

The room shatters, and Russell opens his eyes. Awareness returns to him as his haze of confusion begins to clear. He's lying down in a familiar, albeit bare, room.

A blank television screen.

A drained syringe.

An empty soul.

All exactly as before. At least, it would be, if Russell could reach the world outside of his dreams. The television flickers on, displaying a cheerful blue sky beyond the sectioned window frame. Upon the small bedside desk is a slender diary, stuffed full of ripped pages. Something peeks out of the book's corner, its thin metal glimmering as if in demand for attention.

Knock.

"Russell," calls the voice Russell isn't quite ready to hear.

He doesn't answer.

Knock, knock.

"Russell? I do hope you're still feeling up to collecting some herbs with—" Before Kantera can finish his sentence, Russell swings the door open and steps out of his room.

On his arm is the small, sturdy basket Kantera had left his old chanchanko in days ago, when Russell had collapsed. It all feels like so long ago. Russell spares a small glance to the corroded gates, held together only by shivering vines. More and more eyeballs sprout like buds on the town lightposts as each day passes, but no one seems to acknowledge it, so Russell doesn't either.

He waves a pair of polished, silver shears and drops them into the basket without fanfare. Just another trinket the dream had left for him, as a reminder of his previous experience. At least this one would prove quite useful. "Ready, doctor."

Kantera lingers on the scissors for a long moment. A chuckle rises in his throat, but falls away when he chooses to speak instead. "As always, you are..."

 _So very empty,_ Russell's memory fills in. He freezes, even though he knows Kantera would never say any such thing.

"...Full of surprises, Russell."

Relief flows through his body, curing his paralysis as quickly as it set in. Kantera's words, though a simple idiomatic phrase with little meaning, easily overwrite the previous echo in his mind.

Cautiously, Russell presses his hand to his heart.

Nothing.

Panic had gripped him when he'd felt it before. Now, there's only resignation.

_I wonder... how long I've been dead._

"I want a Higan Manjuu," Russell mutters. Of course, its effects wouldn't carry over to the real world. It's a good thing, too, because this distorted, crumbling landscape is still paradise in comparison.

All he has to suffer is his dream's dreams.

"Shall we go to Funerale after our trip, then?" Kantera asks, offering his arm.

Russell accepts it without hesitation, and nods.


End file.
